


The Future Adam

by grayglube



Series: Welcome to West World [1]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Artifical Human Consent Issues, F/M, Other, Rape Fantasy, West World AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 08:38:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8321188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grayglube/pseuds/grayglube
Summary: The muted white of the printing process is a paradigm for the sort of perfection only a machine can create. Man could never be so meticulous in the creation of something that’s meant to be more than real.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I saw Mag 7 the day before I saw WW and I went home and started plotting this knowing that someone needed to be doing Mag 7 as a West World AU. The title is a play on "The Future Eve"

Her visitor badge gets her into the elevator and onto a floor that’s been preapproved, the entire situation at hand, impending introductions and the mutual aiding of research aside, is jarring. The day seems to take on an even more bizarre slant as the elevator barely hums during its descent.

 

Everything in the complex shines but the soft white light of the halls doesn’t feel artificial or harsh. It surprising how alive it all feels when it should seem sterile and sharp.

 

The floor’s arrival chime is cheerful the meeting that follows leaves her with a feeling of mutual admiration towards Doctor Ford, there isn’t much said of real meaning but she leaves knowing that she’s been researched and hand-picked by a man most consider a genius.

 

“Welcome to West World, Doctor Cullen.”

* * *

 

The muted white of the printing process is a paradigm for the sort of perfection only a machine can create. Man could never be so meticulous in the creation of something that’s meant to be more than real.

 

The design takes on a shape and then the shape takes on a reality that’s close enough to truth to pay for. She stands next to a horse made of nanomachines and artificial structural proteins, its movements dictated by an encoded behavioral program that’s polished into cultivated roughness. The naturalness of an animal given to it by the careful hand of shrouded scientists and the performance coaches that will put the beast made by men through its paces.

 

She sees the process of its creation in a simultaneous arc across four separate rooms, each room a different stage of its development. Like the duplication of a cell, the replication that forms the basis of life, real or artificial, it is something that leaves her a breathless.

 

It’s beautiful.

 

She meets the stare of the slight woman at her side, an assistant who is informed enough on the subject matter to walk her through things.

 

Emma tells the woman as they pass the rooms, “I thought they would be real, but the Hosts are too heavy for real horses, I know..”

 

A man stops a few paces from them and smiles. He doesn’t look like a scientist or a researcher and if pressed she’d call him a cowboy with his wide smile and big step, the white lab coat looks out of place across the broadness of his shoulders. He grins at her having caught some of her words, “Not anymore, the formulas and synthetic compositions have changed, and the weight difference is only a few kilograms. Big fan of yours Miss Cullen.”

 

Another man steps from a glass room where a host is perched nude on a stool. “ _ Doctor _ Cullen, Faraday.” 

 

The older man reaches out his hand to shake hers, “Bernard Lowe, head of programming.” The assistant shuffles their feet, “I was going to bring Doctor Cullen in to watch an assessment.”

 

Lowe nods, his face open and placid at the same time. “I’ll take her and show her some of what’s new. Help Mister Faraday prep for the presentation.”

 

Faraday grins wide and white again and offers his arm to the small assistant, he lopes off wth the smaller woman trying to keep up. “Away we go then.”

 

Emma finds herself smiling.

* * *

 

The tour is abbreviated but the assessment that follows is almost surreal, she’s used to labs and she’s used to volunteers but the absolute compliance and uninhibited ease of the Hosts with the exposure and examination of their bodies makes her something close to uneasy as she stands among the human simulacrums.

 

Mr. Lowe offers her a chair. There’s a host too patient to be mistaken as real sitting on a stool. Lowe rolls from his tray of lab equipment and brings up a visual plan on the clear hand-glass.

 

“We’re shortlisting some new experiences, attractions. One of the things that we had found and discussed at length was that male guests have the opportunity for a multiple partner experience but that there were no similar experiences for our female guests.”

 

She looks over the results of a survey he’s brought up for her perusal. She clicks her tongue, “I understand the need for private consultation and testing.”

 

“We were hoping for your help with testing. I did read your book, and a few interviews you had done after the reviews came out. Your published articles I’ve seen cited by other doctors in your field were really why I thought you’d be a good fit for this.

 

Her smile is slight, “People tend to find the research,” she stops, thinks of the right word that will fit, “something like titillating, only not so nicely worded.”

 

“It’s a difficult thing for people to confront what they’ve been told isn’t appropriate or in line with popular morality.” Lowe rolls back to the nude host. “I was sorry to hear about you and your husband.” He stops, she thinks it’s for effect. “Though, of the two of you, I found your research more applicable to the work we are doing here.”

 

“Our split was very amicable, I’d recommend him but this is a bit outside of his--”

 

“Comfort level?” Faraday interrupts from the doorway,

 

“Mister Faraday.”

 

“Miss Emma.”

 

“Doctor Cullen, Joshua.” Lowe corrects.

 

He tips an invisible hat at her, “Course. Doctor. I’ll go poke my nose somewhere else it doesn’t belong. Everything is ready to view,  _ Bernard _ .”

 

She follows into the hall, her and Lowe fall into step with each other. In the smaller lab where no naked hosts wait to be poked and prodded and studied there are banks of monitors and rolling workstations.

 

“Joshua will walk you through the overview when he gets back, I’ll leave you with my assistant.”

 

The assistant smiles, though to Emma it looks more like constipation. The girl tells her, “We’ve been in development on this for three years.”

 

“Is it scripted?” Emma watches the monitors, Lowe walks into the elevator and the doors close on his image, Joshua Faraday stands next to an examination table where a female host waits patiently in  lithotomy position for a speculum to be inserted, it all feels a touch to voyeuristic, he takes a blood pressure and looks over log data while a doctor attends to the host.

 

The assistant crosses behind her and collects binders of data, “It’s an overall arc, improvisation improves cohesion with the more encounters we complete during stage three,” she sets down a script of optioned dialogue, “before the experience takes place guests will go through a similar application process to the general admission questionnaire to manage the finer details of the encounter,” she opens one of the binders and flips through the pages, “we would also like to discuss integration into larger storylines after stage three testing is completed.”

 

Emma looks through everything, slowly, nails tapping against the table. “There are variations?”

 

“Four. Joshua’s the lead experience coordinator on this. I’ve been working on fine tuning. Really it’s working on the...,” the assistant seems to struggle with the words.

 

“You’re the female perspective.”

 

“Yes, but I’m not a doctor of behavioral science and sexual psychology,” the way the assistant repeats Emma’s credentials sounds like some complimentary gush. “My scope is a little narrow compared to yours, we’re still in early development despite completion of the host fabrication.”

 

“And the variations are based on what? Storyline?”

 

“The degree of immersion.”

 

“So, the overall physicality.”

 

The assistant nods and reaches to find the appropriate piece of paper, their arms brush as she leans into Emma’s space. “We have pet names for them; Lothario, Scoundrel, Bandito, and Outlaw. It’s on a sliding scale. Lothario is a seducer and,”

 

“The Outlaw is a rapist.”

 

“Well… I wouldn’t…”

 

“It’s not the right word is it?” Emma smiles, chagrined at not having the right word. “Aggressor is probably better. Male hosts perform actions without intention and female hosts have a perception of action without contemplation of intention. So, really they aren’t capable of rape, in those terms.”

 

“I’ve never had to discuss it quite like this before, I feel like this is a sales conference.”

 

Joshua Faraday is leaning against the bank of monitors, “Isn’t it?”

 

Emma nods, amused again by his swagger. “Well, I haven’t handed you my credit card yet.”

 

Lowe’s assistant interrupts, “Obviously, we would like to start stage three tests as soon as possible.”


	2. Chapter 2

“We will need to work out the details of the nondisclosure during the course of testing and the lifting of it during the publication of your book. We can timeline that up so your work and the release of the new host experience stagger nicely with each other,” Lowe tells her with a careful, lukewarm smile.

 

“Has the start date been determined yet?”

 

“Ideally we’d like to have all the testing done within a three week testing phase, there are a lot of component. It can be exhausting to move between test and briefing, discussion with design and the experience scripters, all of that.”

 

Joshua Faraday, at the end of the table spinning in his chair slowly, grin coming and going like a rotating image of the sun, says, “And there’s the stamina factor, you should get a B12 shot before you go in.”

* * *

 

 

“This is where the magic happens.” He grins as he says it but there isn’t anything overplayed about the sentiment, he says things with enough chagrin that makes his jokes seem new.

 

Joshua Faraday had popped up at end of preliminary meeting to explain the use of obscured visuals and log data in stage three testing unless a problem were to arise. She stands at the other side of the circular display of the park, he focuses the sightlines and shows her the locations, teaches her how to work the map.

 

“I hear you speak Spanish.”

 

She nods. “I do.”

 

He grins, “You’d be surprised how many people around here don’t, most guests don’t either. I do, it’s nice that I’ll have a chance to play with some dialogue for you.”

 

Her body warms, the social stir that comes from a good-looking man flirting, insinuating something that isn’t quite sexual but could be.

 

He takes her to an exam room and sitting on a stool is a host. He extends an arm, proud and paternal, “This is Vasquez, the Texican Bandito.”

 

“He looks like a man.”

 

Faraday grins and nods very seriously, “It’s because he’s not wearing his hat.”

 

The security guard that’s been sent to accompany them inside the park crosses his arms on the other side of the room, his mouth so pinched it might disappear if he didn’t speak, “He is a complicated piece of machinery.”

 

Faraday scoffs. “A ladies vibrator is a complicated piece of machinery that can sync to your iTunes playlist and vibe out Another One Bites the Dust. Vasquez is a little more than interactive than that.”

 

Emma reaches out to touch the sculpted shoulder of the man who isn’t a man. She stops short and looks up, Faraday’s grin is more smirk than smile, “You can touch, he won’t mind.”

 

“It.” The security guard corrects.

 

“Obviously.” Emma answers stroking at the skin that skin.

* * *

 

They drink coffee standing, looking out over the sparse empty land outside of the institute. He sets his on the rail to light a cigarette and the small flame puts the crescent of his half grin on display. She looks away.

 

“How do you write the scripts?”

 

He blows smoke through his nostrils and cocks his hip against the rail, it’s almost pornographic how well his jeans hug his groin.

 

“We storyboard the scenarios, allow for a percentage of improvisations based on the pop culture of the period and recent encounters,” he waves a hand and pauses before adding, “or observation of the situation, landscape, time of day.” He takes a slow drag and looks at her, “That’s why testing is important.”

 

He cups his cigarette in his palm over his mouth, the nicotine makes is heady, it’s been four years since she quit. She takes a pull from her paper cup.

 

He rubs the back of his head and yawns smokes, he looks like he was pulled out of bed for some crisis. “We don’t want to have Vasquez compare a guest’s heavy bosom to the rolling wide backside of a piebald. We like to avoid foot in mouth.”

 

She nods.

 

He stares out at the night.

 

“Can they make observations of the guest?”

 

“The team that was involved in the calico ladies,” he stops again to explain, “The prostitutes. Added on basics to their host models, but nothing much beyond length and girth of the male member.”

 

“And the team on this?”

 

“I consider myself learned man, wise in the ways of the modern woman, but most guests don’t like to feel like they’re being head shrunk.”

 

The words settle between them. He smokes, she drinks coffee. She’s quit coffee too, before, but it’s never stuck.

 

“If we were able to include a survey for the guest to point out personal likes and dislikes of their own true to life rendezvouses then it wouldn’t be hard to patch into the design.”

 

She turns and presses her spine to the rail, he looks down the line her body makes. Her posture is not unintentional, she supposes his glance isn’t either. She remembers the last time she had sex, she remembers the last time she had _good_ sex.

 

Too long.

 

“It’s not all verbal,” she says. “Position, depth, force, speed,” she trails off, turns and finds him looking at her face, she continues. “Foreplay, after-care, those things are important, words are window-dressing and you need to finish building the house first.”

 

He looks away again, snubs out his cigarette. “You’re not wrong.”

 

“The immersion level might help specify the fine details, Lothario is light play, a little bit of everything, it’s almost vanilla. Scoundrel and Bandito can be tailored for specific preferences but with less and more _insistence_. Guests who choose your Outlaw aren’t there for the story, they’ll be looking for the physicality.”

 

“You think?”

 

She mirrors his jaunty posture against the rail. “It’s like running the marathon or a boxing match, it’s the power dynamic. Aggression and a loss of control helps flip a sticky switch, just thinking about it,” she stops. His face lacks recognition of the idea. Emma finds herself jutting her hips a bit more. “That’s just a term, sticky switch. Men and women, in some cases can’t quite make it the final few meters, arousal and orgasm run on two separate tracks and the switch that helps the train crossover gets stuck.”

 

“How come?”

 

“You see it with some drugs, situational factors, underlying emotional or mental distress. There needs to be more stimulation, varied from what’s usual to flip the switch and get to orgasm. For someone not under those situations. The Outlaw experience is cathartic in its own way.”

 

Faraday’s chuckle is a dark rumble, it tugs at a chord of arousal low on her spine, her sex throbs gently, a reminder of just how long it has been since she’s been fucked.

 

He gestures with his cigarette, “Sexual catharsis. That would make a good subtitle for your book.”

* * *

 

She goes for the Outlaw experience to start.

 

There’s a novelty to being a sex researcher and often it means experiences that equate to sexual stimulation but this is something different, it’s not a lab with some falsely arranged fake phallus testing response and timing and the phases of reproductive drives, this is real and visceral.

 

He’s lassed her, quick and neat. One ankle roped and a fast pull and she’s pressing palms to the floor of the cabin in less time than it takes her to get a word of protest out. Her breasts meet the floor and her lungs empty in one heave.

 

His laughter is thick and dark like cigar smoke.

 

“Was expecting a Marshall or a bounty hunter, I don’t think you’re either.”

 

He’s warm and his weight is just like it would be if he were real, the calluses on his hands are crafted so they scratch her nipples when he rips the front of her blouse.

 

He rucks her skirts up and whistles, her body heats, one long flush all the way down her spine.

 

He has a just shy of unbelievably white smile, the bottom row is the slightest bit imperfect, marginally crowded and crooked she reaches up and touches them, he bites at her fingers.

 

He smells like dust and fresh sweat which leaves her reeling, head light and limbs heavy. He smells like a man who has done hard work who will do hard work on her and something in her lower brain lights up when his teeth bite a ring of discomfort around her breast, not sharp like pain but something that makes her spine bend and her body get wet.

 

Her throat gives up a litany of _stop_ and _no_ , not the prearranged words that might actually cause the situation to cease, and he only chuckles and slows the way his hands range over her skirts and stockings and skin.

 

“Free range,” he rasps on her throat like he can hear what she doesn’t say as she twists just to see if he will follow her struggle with an equal effort to stop it, he does.

 

She’s wearing delicates only because she’d wondered what a man who isn’t real would do to them.

 

He pulls them apart with both hands and she shudders. The automaton made of flesh only perceives it as fear, he’s made to be a something cruel and bad and wrong, the knowledge of what It’s been made for makes the space between her shoulder flare with heat.

 

His nails are blunt and when his fingers push inside it’s perfect length and thickness, his hands might be works of arts themselves as finely crafted for her pleasure as they are.

 

He unbuckles his belt and it’s like he’s unshackled himself.

 

It’s only because she remembers her mandatory foreign language classes that she can appreciate his foul words as he aligns himself, dripping excitement and conquest, she wonders if it tastes the same as a real man at the same moment Vasquez the Outlaw crushes his mouth over hers, the uneven coarseness of his unshaven cheek makes her body spark up with something that leaves her clenching around where he forces himself inside.

 

The usual expletives and the uncharacteristic half heard endearments make her flush, the juxtaposition of fucking and pet names makes her clutch him too tight.

 

She’s played at scenarios before with real lovers but the utter unrealness of being able to really hit the thing pumping inside of her like a real man and have it neither stall or worry about how she is handling the fantasy beneath him is exquisite.

 

The sterility of a lab and the cleanliness of her marriage have left her unprepared for the way the man who is not a man cums inside of her and her own orgasm.

 

She wonders what it tastes like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 more parts to this I think

**Author's Note:**

> This will have a few more parts and be a part of a sort of series of fics in this AU verse, kinda sorta


End file.
